


On Letting Go

by strawberryskylines



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Crying, Death, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-03
Updated: 2013-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-10 06:18:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/782792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberryskylines/pseuds/strawberryskylines
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>it’s when they’re sitting together out on the balcony on a balmy tuesday morning with their thighs pressed together that harry says it.</p><p>“i want to get over him.” he says, and liam nearly jumps out of his own skin, because this is the very first time where harry is coherent and awake awake and addressing his problem out loud. liam remains silent, just let’s harry breathe, because god knows he hasn’t been able to do that for a while. he licks over his chapped lips with his tongue and the green in his eyes flash sincerely when he says, “i’m ready to get over him now.” </p><p>or, the one where liam helps a friend in need.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Letting Go

**Author's Note:**

> First Lirry fic! Whoo! I've been obsessed with this pairing for a couple of days now. No beta because bleh, so any corrections I'll make later, but probably not. I hope it is bearable anyway.

the first night it happens, liam is woken abruptly out of his dreams.

the first night it happens, harry is screaming. and pretty loudly too, if you ask liam.

but liam doesn’t have much time to complain, because he’s utterly frazzled the minute he bursts open the door of harry’s bedroom yelling, “what is it? what’s wrong?”

and harry only answers in ragged screams, dry sobs and incoherent languages because his fingers are gripping so hard at his bed sheets that his poor knuckles have gone placid, and his forehead is completely drenched in cold sweat. his feet are thrashing wildly because he’s long since kicked his comforter to the floor, but his eyes are still closed.

he’s still sleeping.

so liam wakes him up, grasping harry’s shoulders and shaking them, not only because he’s fucking terrified of what’s happening, but because he’s never seen his best friend act this way, he’s never seen anyone sleep so violently. it obviously can’t be good.

it takes about ten minutes after harry finally comes to for him to finally release the death grip on his bed, run a quivering hand through his hair and finally take one, two, three deep breaths and his heart rate has slowed to a less frightening pace.

liam knows he probably shouldn’t say it, he probably shouldn’t bring it up, not at a time like this and he already knows the answer, but he’s got no time before his mouth is asking, “did it have something to do with him?”

and then harry is crying all over again.

\--

the second time it happens, liam is prepared because zayn is there.

it’s by accident, because the three of them were just watching a movie – love actually, harry’s favorite, even though he didn’t really watch it because about six minutes in he excused himself politely from the living room and went to bed – before they fell asleep with zayn’s head in liam’s lap and liam’s fingers in zayn’s hair so that they are just liamandzayn.

unfortunately, there are screams coming from harry’s room again.

it’s the same scene – with the exception of zayn panicking – just a different night. harry’s clutching at his pillows needily, almost greedily, and he’s yelling curse words and other words that are too foreign for liam to understand, so they wake him up and give him a glass of water.

liam keeps his lips tightly sealed this time, because he knows better, but zayn is overflowing with questions.

“was it a nightmare?”

harry almost doesn’t reply back, but he grimaces and says, “no.”

“were you just sleep-yelling, then?”

“i don’t know.”

“how don’t you know?”

“i just don’t, okay?”

“was it about louis?”

and then there’s more screaming, but it’s from liam this time.

\--

the third time, niall is there, and he’s worried.

he’s all bright blue eyes, frown lines on his forehead and palms pressed together in a too mature manner when he mutters in his irish brogue, “d’you think we should send him somewhere?”

“he’s not loony.” liam is defensive and he doesn’t even know why. maybe it’s because he’s still a little pissy with zayn for saying it like that, saying it out loud, saying it in front of _harry_ for fucksakes. or maybe it’s because neither of them were there that first time, so they don’t understand.

“i never said he was. i just want him to get help.”

“he’s not loony.” liam repeats, and liam only frowns more, deeper. liam kind of wants to poke those wiggly lines above his blonde eyebrows and tell him, stop worrying. harry is sad, not sick. harry is hurting, not bleeding. he’s cracked, not broken.

but then he can’t even say these things out loud, because he honestly doesn’t know for sure.

“alright, if you say so.” niall starts, stares hard at liam, then hard at harry’s closed bedroom door, then at liam again. it’s been almost twenty minutes after harry’s latest episode, and fifteen minutes after they’ve lulled him back to sleep with a glass of water and cool fingers in his hair. “but if this continues, or gets worse, then we have to do something. it’s going to be a year in three months, this can’t go on forever.”

liam can work with that, so he says, “fair enough.”

and then niall must be satisfied with that answer or something, because he gets up from the kitchen table, leaves his empty bottle of beer and wrinkled crisp packet on the table (because he’s niall and he’s just that polite) before he makes his way to leave. when he’s halfway through the threshold, he turns and says seriously, “keep an eye on him, yeah?”

liam nods sharply, placing his palm on his chest like it’s a scout’s honor and he says, “i wouldn’t dream of doing anything else.”

\--

okay, he knows what niall meant when he said ‘keep an eye on him’. he knows that that probably meant that he doesn’t need to spend twenty four hours a day, seven days a week by harry’s side, but he’s doing it anyway because he’s worried, too.

“are you about to follow me into the bathroom?” harry asks one night when he’s halfway in the bathroom, and liam is right at his heels.

feeling a hot red blush flush up the skin of his neck, liam says a little defensively, “you’re just going to shower.”

harry doesn’t reply, he only stares, incredulously, before liam slaps a palm over his eyes and reassures, “i’m not gonna peek, i promise.”

so harry showers, and liam sits on the lid of the toilet, legs crossed pretzel-style. the glass of the shower door is foggy and sweating condensation, and the steam is making the back of liam’s shirt damp. from where liam is sitting, he can make out shapes and a vague silhouette of harry washing up.

if he squints like he wants to, maybe he can make out details, like the soapy arch of the small of harry’s back or the etched planes of his abdomen or the rise and dip of his collarbones. but he promised he wasn’t going to peek and a promise is a promise.

that very same night after harry’s gotten his shower and he smells like fruit scented shampoo and he’s changed into his pajamas and he’s climbing into bed, liam pounces. he slides in after the curly-haired boy, snuggling up close. he’s not the taller of the two, since they’re bordering on being the same exact height, but he’s determined to play the big spoon tonight.

almost immediately, harry is scooting away from him like it burns to touch. “fuck off.”

liam nuzzles his face against the material of the back of harry’s shirt and says, “but i wanna cuddle.”

“no, you wanna keep an eye on me.” and harry says the last five words so pointedly that liam reddens instantly. guess he and niall weren’t as quiet as they thought they were.

but liam doesn’t deny this accusation, so harry turns off the lamp by his bed, because maybe he would like someone to keep an eye on him, and then they fall asleep just like that.

\--

the fourth time it happens, it’s liam’s fault he gets hit in the face.

he’s lying too close, curled around harry’s back with his arms wrapped around harry’s waist, as limp as noodles and then the thrashing begins and the screaming starts as if right on cue, and then _smack_! liam has a red imprint of harry’s hand on his cheek.

with one hand clutching his now injured face, cheek inflamed and throbbing, liam makes to get out of the bed to shuffle to the kitchen for the routine glass of water, but something’s different this time. harry is awake, and he’s grabbing liam’s hand.

well, harry’s not _awake_ awake. he’s sleepwalking, or sleep-functioning at this point since he’s sitting up and tugging on liam’s arm like a young child would pull at their mother’s fingers for attention. so liam does just that, he gives harry attention.

“you okay?” he whispers, even though it’s a really stupid question, because, of course not. but harry is just staring at him with this really blank, eerie expression that makes liam’s blood freeze icy in his veins.    harry pulls on him harder, grip tight, again and again until liam complies like his ragdoll, falling back into bed beside him.

“’m sorry, lou.” harry’s looking at liam, but he can’t see liam. his emerald eyes are like clouded glass, misty and fragile. he laces his fingers in liam’s hair, presses his lips to liam’s neck, but liam kind of feels dirty. he’s on the receiving end of affection that’s not intended for him. “’m so sorry.”

liam sighs, because he knows where this is going. he makes an attempt to stop it before it really starts. “harry –”

“i love you so much and it’s all my fault.” harry is rambling with tears streaming down the apples of his cheeks, and liam has to use every fiber within his being to keep from reaching out to thumb those tears away. “everything is all my fault, lou.”

liam is at a loss for words, because he’s never done this before. he’s never been an illusion for someone, never been the center piece of someone’s sleep and grief influenced dream. but that’s no excuse for doing nothing, because it’s so obvious how much harry needs him right now. the desperation is in the quiver of his voice, the shake of his hands, the brush of his eyelashes against his cheeks when he blinks.

so liam taps into his acting skills even though there are none there, and speaking as someone who’s, tragically, been dead a while, he says, “it’s not your fault, harry.”

harry’s lips purse together, and they’re all bitten and swollen and red and liam silently wishes that he’ll be able to see them again like that, someday. but just not under these circumstances. sniffling and choking a bit on his words, harry whispers, “i should’ve been in that car. i was supposed to be in that car too.”

behind liam’s eyelids, there are flashes. flashes of a year ago, on that day when harry was on the phone with a boy, his boy, who was coming home after staying a week with his family. harry had been so excited, nearly jumping off the walls of their flat, phone glued to his ear. he was chatting away happily at something or other, something about dinner reservations for their upcoming anniversary and blah blah blah.

and liam remembers sitting on the sofa, sudoku puzzle in hand. he had laughed at harry the whole time for being such a complete sap, and he remembers saying, “calm down, you idiot. he’s coming home.”

but that liam was proved a liar that day, because louis did not, in fact, come home.

and now he’s witnessing the outcome of his fibs, because it’s in his arms right now, reduced to a shaking, blubbering mess of boy. closing his eyes and pressing his face into harry’s curls, he says again, “it’s not your fault, harry.”

harry lets out a weak sob, his chest expanding and contracting violently against liam’s. pushing his face more into the flesh of liam’s neck, so hard that his nose is squished and liam can feel tears slivering down his spine, harry says, “it is because i was on the phone with you and you’re not allowed to be on the phone and drive, louis. it’s not allowed because you could die, and you did, louis. you did.”

“it’s not your fault, harry.” liam says because he thinks maybe he’s stuck on repeat. he maneuvers them both until they’re lying back on the bed again, but this time, there’s no little spoon, big spoon. there’s just harry and liam or maybe harryandliam since they’re so close together.

and then they fall asleep like that, legs tangled, chest to chest, heartbeat against heartbeat.

\--

in the morning, harry doesn’t know, because he doesn’t say anything.

or maybe he does know, but he’s too scared to say anything, because harry and liam have been close all their lives, but last night was definitely crossing a line or two.

but harry says nothing, doesn’t mention it vaguely or slyly bring it up.

so, to save them both the trouble, liam doesn’t say anything either.

\--

“he’s not getting any better.”

it’s about a month from that first night that it happened, and niall is still worried. if possible, his furrowed eyebrows have come together even more so now it looks like he’s got a permanent unibrow. liam would laugh, poke fun, but he thinks that might be inappropriate.

the nightmares haven’t ceased. there’s a chance that they may have increased in intensity, because there are some nights where harry says actual words instead of his usual babble. those nights are terrifying for liam because he always thinks harry is awake, but he never is. and he never talks about it in the mornings when they have burnt toast and tea because he doesn’t remember. because he doesn’t even know that he does this. and then he does it again. it’s become a vicious cycle.

zayn is sitting on the opposite side of the table, next to niall, with a cup of coffee in front of him. if you squint, it kind of looks like they’re divided and niall and zayn have formed a team against liam. but if you don’t squint and actually know them, you’d know that they’re all a team, together.

(and maybe zayn and niall have become a little biased for one another ever since they started fucking a couple months before louis’ pass, but whatever. they’re still a team.)

zayn looks at liam and niall both with weary eyes. he hasn’t been sleeping lately because his art has taken off. suddenly everyone and their grandmother thinks his art – the art he’s been creating ever since he could hold a paint brush correctly – is absolutely splendid. liam has no idea what’s changed, zayn’s art still looks like nothing but giant blobs of color to him. zayn says, “should we get him some help? like, professional help?”

“he’s not loony.” liam pipes up immediately, because he doesn’t like it when they get like this. it makes it sound like they’ve got to walk on egg shells around harry, and maybe they do, but it’s only at night, so they can deal. and niall and zayn don’t even live with him, so they couldn’t possibly understand.

exhaling hard through his nose and rolling his eyes so that they’re looking at the ceiling, niall bites out a brisk, “you’ve said that already, we know.”

it’s not like niall to get snippy, and liam knows this, knows because niall is seriously the most laid-back guy on the planet. they don’t call him the carefree mofo for nothing. it’s just that this is niall’s distressed heart talking, the heart that’s had to endure a lot of pain this past year. that doesn’t stop liam, though, from retaliating with, “you know and yet you keep talking about him like he’s some kind of psychopath.”

niall’s eyes get comically wide, his jaw dropped and open so the pink of his mouth makes an O shape. placing a hand over his chest like liam’s wounded him internally, niall says, “he’s my friend and i just want to help him, liam.”

“don’t worry about it, i’m helping him.” liam states with a little swell of pride in his chest, letting just a bit of a hint of a smile grace his lips.

niall makes a sound in the back of his throat that sounds like a cross between a laugh and a scoff. “how? by bringing him glasses of water?”

blood racing hot all up and down in his veins and his heart zinging because niall doesn’t _know_ – doesn’t know about the nightmares harry has where he’s stuck in between his delusions and his reality, doesn’t know about the pain he feels even when he’s sleeping – liam fires back, “by _being there_ when he’s hurt.”

niall looks a little stunned, a little overwhelmed. he stares at a spot beyond liam’s shoulder, then down at his intertwined fingers, then directly at liam. he says, “well, i’m trying to be there for him as best as i can.”

“being there for him and thinking up places to dump him for ‘professional help’ are two totally different things.” liam doesn’t say it bitterly, but his implied undertone is enough to shut niall up. liam looks hard at niall and then at zayn, who hasn’t said a word since his unnecessary suggestion on ‘professional help’, and then announces again with a bit more force and warning loaded behind his words, “don’t worry about it, i’m helping him.”

\--

and so, liam tries to remain true to his word. he tries to help harry.

he starts small because he’s nervous, because he’s never fixed a human being. sure, there were toys when he was little and his parents couldn’t afford to get them repaired, and that one time he accidentally tripped while messing about with nicola and sent his mum’s prized vase flying across the room.

but he’s never fixed a person, never a person. it’s not hard, though, he finds out soon enough.

they do normal things, and act as normal as they can manage.

liam puts on his jacket and trainers on thursday and braves the windy october air to walk to the video store. he rents funny movies for laughs and smiles, action movies for the adventure and distracting explosions. he leaves titanic on the shelf so harry doesn’t have to cry more than he needs to.

they make cupcakes one sunday evening, or at least they try to. there’s purple frosting everywhere (the color was harry’s idea). it’s on the counter, streaked across the floor, and tangled in harry’s curls.

there’s even some smudged on the left corner of liam’s mouth, somehow. but harry takes care of that promptly, using the pad of his thumb to brush over the icing and then clean it off his own finger by sucking it into his mouth.

liam’s stomach swoops, not only because of the gesture itself. but because after the motion, the younger boy smiles at him, the fangs of his upper teeth poking into the red flesh of his bottom lip, and liam’s got a feeling that he’s getting the old harry back.

he’s getting his harry back.

\--

it’s when they’re sitting together out on the balcony on a balmy tuesday morning about a week and a few days from their cupcake activities with their thighs pressed together that harry says it.

“i want to get over him.” he says, and niall nearly jumps out of his own skin, because this is the very first time where harry is coherent and _awake_ awake and addressing his problem out loud. niall remains silent, just lets harry breathe, because god knows he hasn’t been able to do that for a while. he licks over his chapped lips with his tongue and the green in his eyes flash sincerely when he says, “i’m ready to get over him now.”

\--

harry’s become somewhat of his own version of dr. jekyll and mr. hyde.

when the sun is up and filtering in through the curtains, harry goes about his day like harry does. like the harry before lou’s accident, puttering around the flat in his slippers like a loving mother and chopping away in the kitchen around dinner time like a master chef.

when the sun goes down, however, and the flat is bathed in darkness, he becomes another person entirely. a shivering, weeping pile of bones that is swiftly soothed by a glass of water.

but, believe it or not, he’s getting better. of course, he’s still got dreams that quickly turn into nightmares, but there haven’t been an more illusions.

harry hasn’t called liam ‘louis’ in a long time, so that has to be good.

liam never invites niall and zayn over anymore because he knows they’re going to make it worse. harry is at his most fragile point; he’s on the brink of recovery. and one poke, one prod, one push can send him spiraling. liam is unwavering to not let that happen. not again.

sometimes, they share a bed. but only at harry’s request because liam would never impose like that. and quite frankly, he’s too scared of getting hit in the face again. he’s learnt his lesson from the first time.

it had happened suddenly and unexpectedly the first time harry asked. he hadn’t had a nightmare, which was rare but good, and liam was in the room any way because he was in the middle of a frantic search for his ipod. he had it just the other day, he _knows_ he did, but now it’s like it’s gone and grown legs and packed it’s bags and moved to guatemala because he can’t find it _anywhere_. ok, that’s an exaggeration, but, his ipod is pretty much the window to his soul.

harry was just sitting on the foot of his bed, watching liam move about the room, shift things around on his desk, rifle through his wardrobe.

it’s, surprisingly, when liam is poking around underneath harry’s bed that he finds his ipod, the headphone still plugged in and wrapped around the device like he had left it.

“aha!” he held it up in the air with a triumphant smile across his face. he stood up and stuck the ipod in his back pocket, shrugging with a roll of his shoulders. “i don’t know why it was in here, or even under the bed for that matter, but i don’t care.”

it’s when liam was moving to leave the room that harry finally responded, blinking quickly, licking his lips and wrapping his slender fingers around liam’s wrist. his voice sounds completely wrecked an croaky even though he hadn’t said a word, and he had looked up at liam with these big emerald eyes, asking, “stay, please?”

and liam couldn’t possibly have said no.

so, now, they share a bed sometimes. and it isn’t bad, sleeping next to harry. of course, there is the occasional nightmare, the occasional time where liam’s got bruises on his arms and torso when he showers in the morning, but that’s okay.

because for some unknown reason, he feels like ever since he and harry have been sharing a bed, harry’s been having less and less nightmares.

\--

it’s somewhere in the middle of november, quite possibly a friday night, when they’re both sitting on the couch. liam has his feet propped up on the coffee table and harry’s got his knees bent and tucked close to his chest, arms around his legs like he’s protecting them. the tv is on, some sitcom is screening, but harry’s not watching. instead, he’s staring intently at the side of liam’s face.

and liam knows his profile isn’t all that great, and right when he turns to inform harry of this, the younger boy cuts him off, asking with his voice small, “if i did something extremely crazy right now, can you promise not to hate me?”

liam closes his mouth, then opens it. then closes it again. he looks like a fish. a fish with a buzz cut and furrowed eyebrows. stuttering carefully over his words, liam says, “i’d never hate you, harry.”

harry sucks his bottom lip in between his teeth at that, green eyes watery like he’s about to cry. “just promise.”

liam nods, “i promise.”

harry wastes absolutely no time after that, closing in what little space they had between them so that in a flash, he’s straddling liam’s hips. he sits back comfortably on liam’s thighs like he’s going to be there a while. and while liam is internally freaking the fuck out, harry leans in slowly, almost painfully slowly, until there is virtual no space between the two boys, and then he’s kissing liam.

not full on kissing him like he’s hungry and the inside of liam’s mouth is a buffet. but light kisses, little butterfly things that are just lips brushing softly against lips more than anything else. even though he’d really like to, liam doesn’t push it. he just lets harry test the waters on his own.

harry gets a little braver as the seconds tick by, starting with placing a firm and slightly wet kiss on the corner of liam’s mouth. then he moves inward, inch by inch, breath by breath until liam’s got harry’s bottom lip trapped between his.

he takes control then, because harry’s got in hands fisted into the material of liam’s t-shirt, pinching and clenching the fabric like a silent plea. liam cards on hand up the nape of harry’s neck, fingers gripping loose curls and the other he lets rest peacefully on the small of harry’s back.

the sitcom is still drawling on behind them, the credits may or may not be rolling, but liam honestly couldn’t give a shit right now. because harry is a solid weight on top of him and his lips are full and the inside of his mouth tastes like ice cream they had after dinner.

and this is definitely different, and if you squint a little, this is definitely crossing a line.

but he promised he wasn’t going to hate harry and a promise is a promise.

\--

from then on, things get a little sweeter.

the beginning of december is full of batting eyelashes and blushing cheeks and tentative kisses from both ends. it’s all shy and innocent, really. while liam is at the stove preparing dinner, sometimes harry will sneak up behind him and tuck his chin on liam’s shoulder and press kisses all along liam’s jawline.   sometimes when harry wakes in the morning, the first thing he’ll see is liam’s eyes sweet as melted chocolate hovering over him and the first thing he’ll feel is the heaviness of liam’s chest against his and the buttery gentleness of liam’s bottom lip dragging across the skin of his neck.

they venture out sometimes, but only to do essential things like get food and buy toilet paper. harry always seems keen on wearing one of liam’s jumpers when they do tread out to the market, and liam always obliges, because how could he say no to that face?

they build pillow forts in the living room and have a mini snowball fight and watch _the dark knight_ over and over until liam gets sick of it, which takes a while because he fucking loves that movie. they make tea in the morning and hot chocolate at night, and eat so much takeaway on the nights that they don’t feel like going shopping that they nearly explode.

harry hasn’t had a nightmare in two weeks; liam would know because he’s been counting.

and this is good, he thinks. this is really good. because for the first time in _months_ , harry is smiling again. and not sad smiling, like he used to do when they asked him if he was okay or how he was holding up. not the quivering smiling he used to do whenever someone would accidentally bring up louis’ name in innocent conversation and he’d brush it off.

he’s genuinely smiling now, with all of his teeth and everything. so bright and white, he lights up the whole fucking room, maybe the whole world.

but most importantly, he lights up liam’s heart, and that’s enough for now.

\--

the first time they fuck, it’s after harry’s had his first relapse.

it’s a snowy wednesday night and liam is in the living room, watching the credits rolls for the disney movie classic of toy story. he doesn’t know why he’s watching the credits, or when he even put the film on in the first place, but he does know that for some reason watching buzz rescue woody seems to lift his spirits.

it’s seven days till christmas, six days until louis’ birthday. liam’s heart pangs a little, because if he was still alive, right now they’d be renting a venue and booking a dj and creating a menu and printing out invitations because louis always liked his parties big and loud, just like him.

liam wasn’t expecting a setback, not tonight.

but it happens, anyway.

it’s just a little after midnight, maybe around twelve fifteen or so, and liam’s drifting in and out of a state of consciousness. he would get up and go to bed properly, if he had the motivation, but his bedroom is so far, far away and the couch is right beneath him, so.

they had put up the christmas tree a couple of days ago, just the two of them with a smidgen of help from niall when the irish lad had popped by in search of free beer. the lights are turned on at harry’s request, and it’s blinking silver and white all over the room. the ornaments are these gigantic red drooping spheres with glitter sprinkled on them, and liam had laughed harder than necessary when harry had taken them out of the box and then proceeded to pretend like the ornaments were earrings.

it’s maybe around twelve twenty that the screaming starts. loud and frightening, just like always, startling liam out of his slumber.

automatically, he bolts for harry’s room, like he’s done so, so many times before. and just like always, harry’s lying star-fished out on his bed, but he’s kicking his legs, his hands are curled into tight, placid fists. he’s only wearing his boxers and a cotton t-shirt, but the front of the shirt is drenched in sweat. his eyebrows are digging painfully into the skin above his nose, so liam rushes over and smoothes them out with his thumb.

and then harry blinks awake. his voice is sleep rough, his eyes are unfocused and he may be running a fever because liam can practically feel the heat waves radiating off of him, but he says, “i had a nightmare.”

liam nods and climbs up onto the bed, somehow coordinating himself around harry’s octopus limbs so that he can tuck his legs beneath himself. letting a hand reach out so he can softly smooth harry’s fringe out of his eyes, he says, “i know you did.”

harry leans into the touch, closing his eyes, and if liam listens very closely, he swears he can hear a purr rumbling deep from within the curly-haired boy’s chest. “’m getting better, though.”

“i know you are.” liam assures him, sliding his hand from harry’s fringe to the middle of his head where he scratches lightly. harry makes a sound of in the back of his throat that liam takes as approval so he continues, fingernails scraping scalp.

harry was good for the entire day. he woke up early and fresh-faced at around seven am, before liam even. he was already showered, dressed and ready to roll by the time liam was ironing his clothes. and then they went out, just to pick up a few things like a present for niall which they _still_ haven’t gotten because they couldn’t decide between a snapback or sneakers and a new toaster since theirs just decided that it was going to blow up the day before.

sure, harry had been mostly quiet the whole trip, often staring into space at some moments, but then liam would speak, and then he’d snap out of it, smile gracing his lips like it had never left. liam didn’t think anything was wrong, and certainly nothing had felt weird, but there was this teeny tiny little nagging at the back of his mind that he couldn’t get rid of the whole day. kind of like he’d forgotten something, and he _knows_ he’d forgotten something, but he can’t remember what it is.

and while liam is running the events of the day back through his mind, harry’s eyes open, suddenly, and he says, “liam.”

“yeah?” liam inquires, a little distractedly.

harry’s quiet for a few minutes, doesn’t speak or even seem to breathe. it’s like he’s frozen, put on pause, and liam leans over worriedly, about to ask him what’s the matter. but harry then spits out so fast that it could probably be classified as a single word, “can you fuck me?”

“what?” the hand in harry’s hair stills and liam may or may not begin choking on his own saliva.

“can you fuck me?” harry says it again, firmer this time, like it’s a command more than a question. he reaches a hand up so that now he’s got liam’s wrist trapped in the encirclement of his fingers, and he swallows, hard, before he tacks on, “please?”

feeling his heart swell up like a balloon in his chest and his dick twitch in his pajama bottoms, liam says sternly, “harry.”

and harry answers back, “liam.”

“are you sure?”

“yes.”

“no regrets?”

“no.”

“you promise?”

“i love you.”

and liam tries his best not to be all mushy and teenage, but he really, really can’t help it because harry’s words have reduced him to a blushing mess. barely audible and sounding a bit strangled, liam says, “i love you too.”

harry closes the distance then, like he always does, and licks into liam’s mouth instantly. liam licks back, resuming his scalp scratching movements in harry’s hair. the younger boy makes another noise of appreciation, but it’s more of a moan this time, and it hits liam deep, vibrating down his body until he’s twitching urgently in his pants again. one kiss and he’s already half hard.

using his free hand, he pushes harry back onto the bed and swings his legs over so that his knees bracket harry’s hips. harry’s hands are on him then, tugging immediately at the hem of his t-shirt. harry breaks away from liam, lips rubbed red and raw, and his eyebrows furrow as he says, “c’mon, liam, get this fucking shit off.”

liam complies immediately because horny harry must equal bossy harry and he frees himself of his t-shirt, his chest bare and exposed. the brisk wind from outside must be leaking in through the windows, because the air is cold, and liam shivers against it, his nipples instantly hardening.

harry is on him straightaway, leaning up at an awkward and uncomfortable angle so that he can lick greedily at liam’s collarbones. liam shudders involuntarily at the feel of harry’s tongue on him, and he bites down hard on his own tongue to suppress the moan that’s building up in the back of his throat. pushing on harry’s shoulders to get him to lie back down, liam says, “alright, it’s your turn.”

harry doesn’t need to be told twice, because while liam rids him of his t-shirt, he’s wriggling out of his boxers, tossing them carelessly over the side of the bed. it’s dark in the room because it’s night time, and the only light coming in is that of the yellowish glow coming in from the streetlights outside.

but it’s perfect, the lighting, because liam leans back to admire the view beneath him, and he’s never seen a sight so beautiful.

harry is sprawled out underneath him, as naked and flushed as the day he was born. his head is thrown back as his curls spill across the pillow so that the flesh of his neck is on display. tattoos of all shapes and sizes litter his skin like bruises, and liam would really, really like to trace the outline of each one with his tongue, but not yet. not tonight. his abs are stretched and taut because he works out on a daily  basis, and he’s got a dark trail of hair that starts from his navel and ends where his cock is fully prominent and curved towards his stomach.

liam swallows, hard, because he may or may not have been waiting for this moment his whole life. he’s always been crushing on harry, ever since they met that day in that bakery over on some street that harry had worked at ever since he was fifteen. liam had come in with an aching sweet tooth, and then he’d left with a bag fully of cookies and a beautiful boy’s number scribbled on scrap paper in his pocket.

he did call harry, eventually, but sadly by then it was too late, because harry would call him ‘mate’ and ‘best friend’ when they hung out and would go on and on for hours about some fit bloke named louis.

liam had thought he’d never get his chance, that this would never, never happen to him, but now he’s here, right now, with a nude and pliant harry styles spread out for him.

and he’s not going to waste this moment for a second.

tearing his eyes away from harry’s body, liam takes off his pajama bottoms and boxers in one go, and then there’s nothing left between them. there’s no clothing boundaries or best friend boundaries or emotional boundaries. it’s all liam’s for the taking.

without a moment to lose, liam leans over to reach harry’s bedside table, because even though he’s not one hundred percent certain, he’s almost sure harry must keep some kind of lubricant and protection in there. he gets a little – or, a lot – distracted though while rummaging around in the drawer, because harry’s got his legs splayed open and he keeps rutting up against liam’s thigh, chanting croakily, “hurry up, hurry up.”

“ok, ok.” liam finally retrieves his prize, a conveniently small bottle of lube and a hopefully fresh condom. he holds them both up to show harry his findings, but it seems like the younger boy doesn’t have time to celebrate, because he’s snatching the bottle away from liam.

he opens it up and then squeezes a generous amount on his middle and index fingers. liam’s really confused, because he could’ve sworn that that was his job. but then harry is reaching down between them and liam half expects to feel the cold slickness of harry’s hand on him. but then harry gasps with his mouth wide open and his eyes shut tight, and when he throws his head back the gasp turns into a moan and then liam knows what’s going on.

eyebrows pulled determinedly, liam grabs the lube for himself and then coats some of the substance on his own digits. with his free hand he knocks harry’s fingers away, and the curly-haired boy doesn’t put a fight, choosing instead to use his hands to grip onto the headboard above him. this exposes more of the ink embedded into his arms, and liam looks at them all longingly, silently promising that he will get to them, one day. but right now he’s got more important things to take care of.

he’s never done this before, or, at least not with harry, so with his slick finger he presses very lightly against harry’s entrance, like asking for permission. harry grants it to him easily, nodding fervently with his lip caught in between his teeth. liam takes a deep breath and applies pressure, pushing in slowly but with purpose.

harry takes an instant liking to it, but his eyes are still closed. he lets his bottom lip go so that he can let out a moan that kind of sounds like a purr and a soft, “fuck.”

“fuck.” liam copies him with his voice sounding hoarse because wow, he’s actually doing this. his finger is all the way in now, up to liam’s knuckle and he stays there unmoving until harry lets out a long sigh and then nods. he’s hot and wet and deliciously tight and liam is kind of upset that they weren’t doing this sooner.

liam fucks him carefully with one finger until harry asks for two and then he does two carefully until harry begins pawing downwards, trying to reach for liam’s dick.

liam pulls out, sweat collecting on the dip of his back, and his thighs ache from being in kneeling position for so long. harry is absolutely breathless, is cock angry red. he hasn’t touched it the entire time he was fingered and when liam tried to touch him he had smacked liam’s hand away. he said he wanted to wait until liam was truly inside of him to get off completely and liam honestly couldn’t help it when his heart and cock jumped at the same time.

now harry is handing him the condom, or pretty much shoving it at him with an urgent look on his face. liam rips open the packet with his teeth in an attempt to show how skilled he is, but it doesn’t really matter because harry seems to not even be in his right state of mind. his eyes are hooded now that he’s opened them and his eyes have turned a dark, liquid green.

and this is the part where liam gets a little insecure, because while he’s a, y’know, great size and whatnot (or, at least that’s what all his past lays have told him), he’s still not always sure he does a good job. he’s always been able to make his past lovers come, but it could’ve all been a trick, it could’ve been just them getting themselves off the whole time and liam was just there for show.

“i’m sorry if i’m a little rusty. it’s been a while, y’know.” liam thinks it would be good to apologize in advance if things don’t work out the way they want them to, or the way they should.

“it’s ok, it’s ok.” harry’s face is flushed a deep red, and his lips are parted as he pants, chest heaving with every breath. he snakes a hand between both their bodies, and wraps the large palm of his hand around the length of liam’s cock. not rough, but just firm enough to put an emphasis on his obvious desperation. “liam – god, liam. please.”

and then liam rolls the condom on without another word.

when liam presses the head of his cock up against harry, they both gasp in unison. the friction between them burns like fire through them both, and liam has to place one hand firmly on the bone of harry’s hip and the other on the headboard because he’s afraid his knees are about to give way.

he pushes in deliberately, taking it inch by inch because he doesn’t want to hurt harry. harry doesn’t seem to mind, though, because with every time that liam slides in, he rocks his hips and fucks back, eliciting sounds from both of them.

liam feels tingles all over, starting from his toes and all the way up to his nose and back again. he sets a steady pace, thrusting in and then pulling out, but never all the way. just enough so that harry can catch his breath.

liam didn’t think that they’d be a nuisance to their neighbors in the beginning because so far they’ve been fairly quiet, but the moment that liam decides to experiment and gets a hand around the length of harry between their stomachs, the younger boy lets out this sound so loudly that he’s surprised the cops aren’t banging down their door.

harry is hard and throbbing in his hand, and liam strokes him quickly, wrist flicking on the upwards stroke, slick with harry’s precome. he matches the rhythm of his strokes with the rhythm of his hand, and then it doesn’t take very long at all until harry is coming into his fist with one arm thrown over his face to muffle his groans.

liam comes shortly after with his head thrown back in a low moan, not only because of the sight of a blissed out harry styles beneath him, blissed out _because_ of him, but because when harry had came, he had clenched deliciously around liam and that was the breaking point.

pulling out completely, liam rolls the condom off and ties it up, tossing it expertly into the waste bin in the corner. harry is still breathing hard, and he’s rubbing at the muscles on his arms because they must ache from how tightly he had been gripping the headboard. liam hops off the bed and pads a little woozily to the bathroom because his legs feel suspiciously like jell-o and he grabs a spare washcloth from the closet, wetting it with semi-warm water.

when he returns, harry is lying on his side, and the covers are pulled up around him, resting at his chin. liam sidles up beside him and whispers “babe”, pushing down the blankets a bit. harry complies, but his eyes are closed, and he lets liam wipe up the mess on his stomach and between his legs.

when liam returns from the bathroom for the second time, harry is on his side again, duvet back in it’s original position. liam slides beneath it, still naked, and curls himself around harry, playing big spoon because that’s his job. he nuzzles his nose along the warm skin between harry’s shoulder blades and plants an open mouthed kiss just below his shoulder.

harry doesn’t respond, and liam blames it on exhaustion, and then yawns, because he’s pretty exhausted himself. he doesn’t let harry go, though. now that he has him, he don’t think he ever will. 

it’s maybe ten minutes or so later and then harry says, voice soft, “you know he died today, right?”

liam had been drifting in and out of slumber, the waves of darkness pulling him under only to just wash him back ashore to reality again. blinking his eyes sleepily, liam asks, “what?”

“a year ago?” harry says it like a question and like he’s astonished that, wow, it really was a _year_ ago. sounding a bit more reserved and distant even though he’s lying in liam’s arms, harry says, “he died. today. december eighteenth.”

and then it all comes crashes back to liam like a wave smacking into his senses. memory upon memory invade is brain all at once, and the date of december eighteenth sticks out through it all like a sore thumb. how the fuck could he have forgotten? no wonder harry had been so quiet today, no wonder he kept zoning out. maybe that’s the reason harry had a relapse, maybe that’s the reason he even asked liam to fuck him. how could he have _forgotten?_ “oh my god.”

“you know he never got to turn twenty one, right?” harry sounds like he’s crying now, and liam wouldn’t be surprised if he was. the curly-haired boy seems to curl in on himself, resorting to fetal position, and it sounds like a dry sob when he says, “fuck, liam, he never got to turn twenty one.”

and liam doesn’t say a word after that, he just holds harry a little closer, a little tighter while cries rack through his body in shudders and shivers until he somehow falls asleep. because he is, after all, a really good friend.

\--

liam feels like death when he wakes up the following morning.

he feels like death, but he feels like sated death.

but when he does wake up and sit up and stretch his limbs, he nearly jumps out of his own skin because there’s no beautiful curly-haired boy lying beside him. when liam runs his hand over the tousled sheets, they’re cold.

cold like harry’s been gone a long time.

shooting out of the bed at an instant, liam ends up tripping over himself and landing on the carpeted ground hard with an _oof_. he gets up immediately, though, because right now he hasn’t got time for pain. he locates the boxers he had taken off the night before and shrugs them on haphazardly, nearly ripping right through the material in his rush. he spots his cell on the dresser and grabs it, unlocking and typing in the authorities number as he nearly flies out of the bedroom door.

and he’s walking a full speed through the flat, thumb hovering over the TALK button, when he steps into the kitchen and nearly dies right on the spot. because one harry styles – one _alive_ harry styles – is standing in front of the stove, dressed up fancy in a suit and tie, a mug in his hands, a half-eaten piece of toast in the other.

“what’s your emergency?” sounds out through the quiet and liam drops his phone with a surprised yelp because he hadn’t realized that he actually pressed the call button. his mobile clatters to the floor but remains intact. 

taking a deep breath and mustering up scowl to throw at harry, liam breathes, “you scared the fuck out of me.”

“sir? sir, what’s your emergency?” his phone is chirping from the floor and liam scrambles to pick it up.

“no, no. sorry. sorry, i thought – nevermind, sorry.” he explains his best hurriedly to the concerned female voice and then hangs up, throwing the device on to the table. this time is does break apart, the case popping off, but liam really doesn’t care about that right now. his heart is still beating the blood in his ears. crossing his arms over his chest, he addresses harry. “what the fuck?”

harry bites on his lower lip and sets his mug down on the counter. he tosses the rest of his toast into his mouth, and chewing slowly, he apologizes, “’m sorry.”

“sorry? geez, harry, i was so fucking scared. so scared that … you.” liam doesn’t finish because he doesn’t want to. they’ve already been down this road, during the first couple of weeks of louis’ passing. harry was in this ‘if he’s dead, i might as well be too’ phase and he was on suicide watch at all times. even though he eventually gave up, the doctors had ordered that he be monitored _always_ in case something triggers that state of mind for him again. sighing, liam concludes, “i was scared.”

“i’m sorry, liam. i didn’t mean – you know. i, um, i actually wanted to go visit him today.” harry stumbles and slips all over his words, but on his last sentence he looks down, fringe falling into his eyes. he looks so young, so innocent, and liam silently curses the universe for dealing this poor boy such a shitty hand. “d’you … d’you think we could go visit him today?”

“y – yeah, of course. of course, harry.” liam agrees because there’s absolutely no question about it. no way in hell would he ever let harry do this alone. he grabs his dismantled phone off the table and then nods his head back towards the bedroom. “let me go get dressed.”

harry nods his head in a way that makes his curls bounce with the movement and liam goes to rummage around in his closet for something suitable to wear.

\--

“you look amazing, by the way.” liam says later on after he’s showered, gotten himself dressed and has just finished up his breakfast, placing his dirty dishes in the sink.

harry, who had been sitting with his ankles crossed at the kitchen table, looks down at his attire and blushes, “thanks.”

liam follows harry’s gaze, taking in the way the charcoal gray of the suit fits his skin tone perfectly and the trousers fit on his legs just right and the tie is snug around his neck and he’s even pushed back his hair. liam looks down at his own closes, a simple white button up and black jeans because he doesn’t own dressier pants and says, “i should change.”

“no, no. it’s ok. you look fine.” harry assures him, and then he’s out of his seat, coming around so that he can plant a single, sweet little kiss on liam’s cheek. liam’s skin instantly warms at the gesture of affection, but he’s still wary about his outfit choice.

“you sure? i’ve got tons of suits.”

“it’s fine.” harry grabs onto his hand and is tugging on him. with a smile at the corner of his pretty pink mouth and a nod of his head towards the front door, harry prods, “c’mon.”

\--

the drive to the cemetery doesn’t take long. it’s literally like a seven minute drive. they could walk if they wanted to.

but they don’t, not only because they’re in fancy clothing this lovely thursday afternoon, but because harry had wanted to stop at the florists’ around the corner from their flat. he buys a dozen yellow roses. louis’ favorite, he says.  

with the roses wrapped in paper in harry’s lap and their fingers intertwined tightly on the middle console, they pull up to the gate of the cemetery. it’s opened so liam pulls right in. the whole cemetery is basically a hill so they begin the drive up the incline, passing tombstones of different shapes and sizes, each with a different name, a different body buried underneath. liam squeezes harry’s hand a little tighter.

when they get to nearly the top, liam slows to a stop. the sky above them is a misty gray because it’s about to snow, even though there is already a good inch or two of it on the ground. with the grave of one louis tomlinson about ten or so feet away, liam asks quietly, “do you want me to go with you?”

“no. i wanna say hi to him on my own.” harry sounds shockingly firm, his voice only wavering slightly at the edges. he’s got a smile on his face, but it’s the sad smile, the one with no teeth and no brightness. gripping the bouquet in one hand and the door handle in the other, harry says with confidence, “i’m gonna let him go.”

“okay.” liam nods, and he grabs harry by the back of the neck, pulling him in. harry smells like the citrus shampoo they have in the shower and liam has honestly never loved the scent more. pressing a kiss on harry’s mouth, he says, “i’m right here, if you need me.”

harry returns the kiss, placing it soft and sweet on liam’s jaw, and then he’s pulling on the handle, exiting the car with the flowers in his hand. liam watches him go with a heavy heart and sweaty hands because he’s nervous. is this a good idea? should he really be letting harry do this, after all he’s been through? the poor boy probably has had nightmares about this, illusions about this. and here liam is, thrusting him right into it instead of protecting him from it.

but then he watches harry, and the way he sets the roses gently against the tombstone marked tomlinson. he watches as harry sinks his knees onto the ground like the snow is pretty much nonexistent, and he watches as harry’s mouth moves, opening and closing because he’s speaking. he stays that way for several minutes, long minutes that seem to stretch on for eternity in liam’s mind, but he tells himself to be patient. harry needs this.

he watches as harry places a tentative hand on the tombstone and then says something, one last thing, with a smile on his face, a _real_ smile. then he’s rising from his spot and then shaking the snow off his pants and walking back to the car with his head held high.

when he slides into his seat again and shivers because of the drastic change of temperature, liam waits a couple of minutes for him to get warmed up. when it looks like harry’s on his way to becoming toasty, he asks lightly, “how are you feeling?”

“better. definitely.” harry takes a deep breath, his chest expanding and contracting with the movement. his fingers twitch at his knees for a moment before he’s holding his hand out, palm facing up. looking at liam, he says, “hold my hand.”

“okay.” liam slides his palm into harry’s and laces their fingers, starting the car again with the other hand.

squeezing so tightly that he could cut off blood circulation if he wanted to, harry says, “promise not to let go.”

“i promise.” liam agrees, easily.

and harry leans across the cabin to brush the icy nip of his nose across liam’s cheek. “i love you.”

and maybe it really would be safer for the both of them if liam drove with two hands, just in case someone adjacent to them wanted to be daring today, but liam promised that he was going to let go, and a promise is a promise.

**Author's Note:**

> Fun Fact: This was originally a Larry fic, then it somehow turned into a Narry fic and then finally I settled on it being a Lirry fic. 
> 
> Um, so, I hope it was okay.


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